Now in this long-deferred spring...
- Sylvia Townsend Warner
Now in this long-
deferred spring,
Blackthorn bush by the way-
side what do you say?
Summer was a burning fever,
Winter a cold fever.
I was spared by neither.
But yet your cramped boughs
are pricked with flowers.
By rote, by rote,
These blossoms I put out.
They have not anything
to do with this spring.
They are but the badge
of an old pledge.
Farewell, and overlook
these white ashes among the black.
- Sylvia Townsend Warner
Now in this long-
deferred spring,
Blackthorn bush by the way-
side what do you say?
Summer was a burning fever,
Winter a cold fever.
I was spared by neither.
But yet your cramped boughs
are pricked with flowers.
By rote, by rote,
These blossoms I put out.
They have not anything
to do with this spring.
They are but the badge
of an old pledge.
Farewell, and overlook
these white ashes among the black.